Irrefutable Proof...

That I am NOT Martha Stewart.

Evidence #1: Nothing in my home matches. Not the bath towels, not the bedding, not the furniture. We have some dishes that match, but the unifying factor is actually the chips in the edges from banging around in the dishwasher. My mom made us some curtains that match the bedspread she also made for us (my mother may actually be Martha Stewart, come to think of it), but now it's too warm for that bedspread, so it's in the closet. Half of our silverware matches. None of our clothes match, not even the kids. Well, especially not the kids. None of our rooms have "themes," or "color schemes," unless you count cluttered and strewn with toys a theme.

Here is a photo of the pattern of my couch:

Yes, it really is a hideous pattern of orange flowers.

Now, for the chair:

Yep, that's brown, gold, and green stripes.

See what I'm getting at here?

Evidence #2: I can kill any plant known to humankind in just three days, as long as it is a plant one would like to cultivate (weeds flourish in my care). Well, there is one plant that I've had since college, a hardy little tree that I pretty much fully ignore. It's not real vibrant anymore, but at least my mother-in-law has not "kidnapped" it like my other plants, which I actually appreciate, even though it is quite humiliating. Pretty much every time she visits, she leaves with one of the plants, saying, "Let me just take this one home and...fix it."

As for gardening, I'm a complete failure. There are three beautiful tulips in our backyard, there when we moved in three springs ago, and I'm surprised that they are still alive. In fact, last night I actually dropped a window on them from two stories up (that may be a separate blog entry, but suffice it to say that it was CLEARLY the window's fault!), and they're still upright. We also have three clumps of peonies that I have avoided killing. So far.

My friend Shana recently gave me a beautiful hanging basket that she and her mother planted, and damned if I haven't killed it already, too. It's a fucking petunia. Who can kill a petunia??? Apparently I can. David said it just needs more sun than our front porch is offering it, but I think it's me. Today a co-worker gave me some hostas to plant along the side of our house, where currently there is a patch of evil that I cannot identify but which even the lawn mower couldn't kill. Here are the poor suckers, awaiting their demise:

(I have no idea why this photo keeps showing up vertical. When I view it in my photo program it is horizontal.)

I also highly doubt that Martha Stewart's snow shovel would still be on her front porch in the third week of May. However, Martha Stewart does not live in Minnesota.

Supplementary Evidence:

• I am artistic, but not crafty. I keep my sewing machine in its original box, complete with styrofoam.


• My husband cooks all of our meals. When he is going to be gone during mealtimes, he often cooks for us and leaves me instructions for heating it up. When he does not do that, we sometimes have cereal for dinner. Or McDonald's.


• As soon as I get home from work, I put on pajama pants and a shirt from yesterday, probably smeared with baby snot.


• I've never used the little wineglass charms I got for my wedding seven years ago.


• My organizational system for the house follows some simple guidelines: shove it in the closet, stack it on the couch, or hide it in the buffet.

Plus, my kid wears a bucket on his head:

Definitely not Martha Stewart.